Special Agents in:
by Olivia-Ivy
Summary: A family secret hidden in comic books, a mystery buried as deep as an agents past, and two teenagers too curious for their own good. Go deeper than the game in this rendition of MySims Agents. (Thank you to everyone on YouTube whose playthroughs of My Sims Agents I'm using for this because my family's Wii got shoved in storage years ago)


**Does anyone remember MySims Agents? No? Let me fill you in.**

 **It was released on the Wii and DS on September 29, 2009. Seven years ago, and I'm still writing about it.**

 **I'll explain more at the bottom, you'll probably figure out a lot by the end of this, don't worry.**

* * *

"Alright class, our term project is about your family history. You can do a family tree, or an oral report on a specific family member," the teacher announced, trying to excite her class of twelve-year-olds. They all just stared at her blankly, all but one. Sam Thomas. He knew he had this assignment in the bag. Papa Mike, his grandfather who lived with him and his mom and dad, could tell him anything he needed to know. Well, assuming he was lucid at the time.

The bell rang. Everyone rushed to go home for the day, suddenly alive and awake. Sam was no exception. He grabbed his bag and rushed through the halls, dodging the other students. He immediately turned to the bushes by his school, looking for his prized skateboard. He had won five different skating contests on that board, but, as he told everyone at the fifth contest he won at the park, he was retired, skating only for pleasure from then on. Of course, Junior, ever the douche, said it was because Sam was 'scared' of him. As if.

Loosening the tie of his school uniform and shoving his blazer into his beat-up backpack, he took his board from under the bushes. A couple of the fangirls squealed at the sight of their idol skating again. Even though he skated home everyday from school. He put down the skateboard and got on, pushing off. The wind blew through his red hair and he gathered speed, going downhill. He took a turn into the construction site, doing tricks through the rocky terrain. He waved as he passed the workers and rode on a girder like it was a rail.

He came out on the other side of the construction site, down the block from his apartment. Sam stepped off his skateboard, knowing his mom hated when he rode it. He stashed it in the foyer outside of his apartment and walked in. As always, Papa Mike was camped in front of the TV, clutching a blanket to his chest and rocking back and forth. So much for his project. He won't be getting any information tonight.

"Sam? Is that you?" he heard his mom call. She walked into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She absently patted Papa Mike's head and looked at him, a sad look on her face. Oh, right, today's the twenty-ninth. It seems like on the twenty-ninth of June every year the two of them . . . tuned out. The rest of the world didn't matter, they were too busy moping around.

"Hey Mom, you okay?" he asked, concerned for her. She looked up at him, forcing a smile.

"Yeah sweetie, how was school?" she asked. At least she's making an effort. He plopped on the couch.

"Eh, it was okay," he looked at his hands and cleared his throat. Today was one of the worst days to ask about family history, but he really wanted to start this project, "Hey Mom? Can I . . . ask you something?"

"Of course, what is it?" She sat down next to her son.

"I have to do a family history project for school and . . . I already know all I could ever want about Dad's side of the family, but I don't know anything about your side." he looked at his hands the whole time. He heard the springs on the chair stop creaking; Papa Mike stopped rocking. His mother stayed quiet, and it sounded like she was trying to control her breathing. Without even looking, he could tell she was running her fingers through her dark red hair, a nervous habit. He picked it up from her, though his hair was lighter.

"Evie," Papa Mike croaked, his voice rarely used, "he's eleven now. He can take it."

"I'm twelve Papa," Sam corrected.

The old man looked at him confused, "Isn't your birthday in November?"

"Yes, Papa Mike, but it's June now."

"Oh."

Sam's mother stood up, her burgundy dress swaying around her ankles. She went to the small glass bowl on a small table next to the couch. She fished through the keys in the bowl and came out with a small rusted padlock key on a chain. She held it out to Sam.

"This is for the storage locker we have on East 33rd street. Catch the T there. There's a box labeled 'family stuff'. In it is anything you'll need. I'm going to lay down a while."

Sam took the key and his mother went to her room. Papa Mike went back to his show, muttering about squirrels and 'her'. It was as if it never happened.

"Papa Mike, I'll be back in a few hours. You know Mom's rules; stay away from the kitchen, any doorways, and yo-yos." Sam called, pocketing the key. The old man nodded, the light catching his balding head. The boy walked out of the apartment, picking up his skateboard.

That's what Sam liked most about Sim City. You can walk, or, in his case, ride, almost anywhere, and if something's too far, the T brings you all around the city. He rode quickly to the platform, getting off his board only to climb the stairs. He punched his card and tapped the district where the storage locker was located on the touchscreen. Sitting on the bench, he looked at the others around him. Mainly adults, going home from their jobs. Derek Jr., or Junior, as everyone called him, and his crew were waiting for the train, probably to go try the the skate ramp with the ring of fire behind the tattoo shop at the boardwalk. Sam hoped they set themselves on fire.

The train came and there was a moment of discombobulation as people getting off and on the train rushed forward, eager to get to where they're going. Somehow, Sam made it on the train alive.

He got to the district where the storage locker was, but stopped. Everyone went around him as if he wasn't just standing there, stupidly, staring at the building in front of him. The tracks were always there, in front of that building, and Sam had been there plenty of times without giving it a second glance. But something drew him to it this time, what was it?

Wait, there it was. A curtain on the top floor. It moved. No, _it_ didn't move, something behind it moved. A shadow?

Sam looked down at the key in his hand. He could check out the box later, he just couldn't forget this now. It would bug him forever, like an itch. He quickly ran to the building.

The door was locked. Of course, abandoned buildings (despite what books and TV shows will tell you) are always locked. Surely there's a way in, something got in there. He saw a plaque on the side of the door. It was just a block of wood, worn with age, with words painted on it:

"Here lies the crowbar. Many trash cans celebrate this loss, many agents mourn it."

Weird. Nevertheless, there was a rectangular pot filled with dirt under the sign. Sam dug through the dirt and came up with a slightly rusted crowbar. Did someone actually bury a crowbar?

He took the crowbar and stuck it in the crack between the double doors. Pushing and pulling with all his strength, he was able to open the doors. Sweet. Sam quickly slipped inside, hoping he won't get arrested for vandalism.

The inside was bare. A fancy-ish desk, fancy-ish bookcases on a slightly raised platform, and a smaller desk with a lot of science equipment. Sam felt the wall next to him, feeling a light switch.

He flipped the switch before he realised it wouldn't work. This place hadn't been touched in years, probably longer than he's been alive.

Well if that's true, why was he squinting in the glare of fluorescent lights?

Someone was paying this building's electric bill, keeping it on. But, why? He went behind the fancy-ish desk and turned on the computer. The screen showed a login bar. The username said **xxjennyxx**. The password bar was blank. Too bad, he could have gotten more information about this place if he could get on the computer.

He moved to the raised platform and looked through the bookshelves. Mostly old books about . . . espionage? What went on here? There was a giant computer screen on one of the walls. This one had a schedule of some sort on it. There was a number-letter then two or three pictures next to it. One said **1F** with a picture of, what looked like, a zombie, the old guy who was obsessed with exercise and lived on Sam's street, and the old librarian who owned, like, a dozen pigs. Along with **1F** the list said **B** , **2F** , and **3F** , all with similarly strange pictures. Next to the screen, there was a small room. Inside it, there were rows and rows of clothes. Everything from jeans and t-shirts, to evening dresses, to . . . a yeti suit.

This place is just a big ball of weird.

Sam shook it off and went to the desk in front of the huge screen. There were a few personal effects there. A mug that said _#1_ _insert title here_. A paperback copy of a book called _Forevermore_ , which, according to the back, was a love/ghost/mystery story. A filmstrip of photos, like one taken at a photo booth.

There were two people in the filmstrip photos. One was a boy, around sixteen or seventeen with blonde hair. He had a red baseball cap, backwards, on his head, and a graphic tee over a long sleeved shirt. In one of the pictures he was squashed against the wall of the photo booth. In the others he was making faces at the camera with the other person in the pictures.

The other person was a girl, about the same age as the boy. She had brown, wavy hair, down to her shoulders. Her gray eyes shined happily in each picture, like she didn't have a care in the world. She had her arm around the blonde boy, giving him bunny ears in three of the pictures, and in the last one, they were both just smiling at the camera. They looked very close.

Sam picked up the filmstrip. On the back someone wrote, "B+L Boardwalk 2013". 2013? That's thirteen years before Sam was born. Twenty-five years ago from now. Assuming those people were sixteen or seventeen when they took those pictures, they would be forty-one or forty-two now, around his mother's age.

He moved on. He looked at the small desk. The equipment looked expensive and fragile, not something to mess with, considering someone cared enough about this building to pay its electric bill.

That's basically all the room consisted of. Sam walked around the room, running his fingers over the desk's dusty surface. This place was _literally_ frozen in time. Not a single object had been disturbed, the dust showing just how preserved this place was. The mouse on the computer behind the big desk had a small cobweb going from the cord to the computer screen.

This place meant a lot to someone. And maybe they're still here.

Sam moved to the elevator. He pressed the button and waited for the machine to come to his level. The gears creaked and groaned from lack of use. Probably not the best thing to climb into, but Sam _needed_ to know who was there.

Something dinged and the doors slid open. The elevator played a song Sam vaguely recognized from the classic rock radio station. The song was called _Wrecking Ball_ , or something. He went inside and pushed the button that read **3F**. The elevator started to climb the building.

The doors slid open at the third floor and Sam tentatively stepped out. It was dark on this floor, but this is where he had seen the movement, and he didn't want to alert whoever was here. Though, if he wanted to remain unknown, he shouldn't have taken the elevator. Oh, well. Too late now.

This floor had a large room with an even larger balcony. The room had gray wallpaper. The wallpaper had keyholes with eyes looking through them as a design. Kinda creepy. There were a couple old arcade games against the wall, along with a few chairs. A couple bookcases covered one wall, and on the wall next to the elevator, there was a small trophy case. There were some odd things in the case. A disco ball. A small statue of a man on a horse. A yeti's foot. And a crown.

The crown drew Sam's attention more than it should have. There was nothing particularly special about it. It was made of a black metal with small engravings. The main purpose of the metal seemed to be to hold up the crystal at the center. The crystal was blood red, and if Sam were better versed in jewels, he would have been able to identify it. It was large, gaudy even, almost too big for the metal frame. But it's not even the crown itself that he noticed. It's the _air_ that surrounded it. The crown seemed to suck oxygen and light right from its area of the shelf.

Sam cautiously stretched a hand to the crown. Just before his longest finger reached the crown, a hand clamped down on his wrist stopping him in his tracks. Sam looked up at the man holding his wrist. The man's eyes were shrouded in shadows, Sam could only see the bottom half of his face. It was silent as Sam stared where he assumed the man's eyes were.

"Don't touch that," the man told him. His voice was scratchy, unused, and deep. He set Sam's hand down, safely away from the crown. The man went over to an easy chair and sat down. He flicked on a lamp next to the chair, and Sam gasped once he saw his face. The man was older, deep lines etched into his features, distorting the once laughter-filled eyes. His blonde hair had gray streaks along the sides.

"You . . . you're . . ." Sam stuttered out. He couldn't even form a proper sentence.

"Buddy Graphice," the man, Buddy, finished for him. Buddy was wearing a burgundy robe with a cup of tea sitting on the table next to the chair. This man was much older than the pictures downstairs, but he was the boy from the picture.

"You're old!" Sam blurted out. He slapped his hands over his mouth realizing how rude that was.

Buddy cocked an eyebrow. "Forty-one is not old, young man."

Sam rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Yeah, not his best move. "I-I meant, older. Than the picture downstairs, that is."

Buddy stared at him and was quiet for a moment. "You shouldn't be here," he said. "You shouldn't be going through things that aren't yours."

"I know, sir, I'm sorry. I was just on my way to my family's storage unit and I saw something in the window," Sam explained. Buddy kept staring at him.

"I once knew someone who was that curious," he said. "Who's your mother, boy?"

"M-my mom?" he asked, taken by surprise by the question. "Uh, Evelyn Thomas."

"Thomas? Hm," Buddy took something off the table next to him. A small spiral notepad and a pencil. He started drawing something with extreme concentration. A smile found its way onto his face, taking years off and making him seem much kinder. His tongue poked out with he drew.

No more than five minutes passed before Buddy showed Sam the drawing. "Her maiden name wouldn't happen to be Grayson, would it?" Sam gasped. The drawing looked like an old picture of his mom when she was around eighteen or nineteen. Every detail was there, including her tattoo on her arm.

"Uh, yeah … do you know her?" he asked. Buddy put the pad back on the table.

"I used to. Years and years ago …" he trailed off, staring at a spot over Sam's shoulder while he relived a memory. Sam glanced at where Buddy was staring. The crown.

"What happened?" Sam asked. He sat crosslegged on the floor in front of Buddy.

Buddy looked down at him and sighed before shaking his head. "You really want to know kid?"

Sam nodded. Buddy sighed again.

"Alright. While I'm sure your mother hasn't said anything about me, you may know me as the artist behind the wildly popular 'Special Agent' comics." He grinned a bit in pride. Sam nodded. He remembered someone in the comic book shop mentioning them. How after a certain issue it just seemed to drag. "What you probably don't know is that all my comics are based on real-life events." Sam's eyes widened. Buddy chuckled. "The special agent from my comics was actually my real-life best friend. Now, back before all of this special agent business started, my best friend was just a neighborhood detective. She looked a little like this …"

Buddy took the pad and flipped to a new page. He drew the girl from the pictures downstairs, maybe a year or two older. She had a confident look in her gray eyes and her wavy hair was tucked behind her ears. He could see her double pierced ears. Big black hoops and little blue pencils. "Her name was Olivia-Ivy Hart, but I called her Livvy." He set the pad down. "Back then, I was just starting out as an artist, but I would support the 'Hart Detective Agency' however I could. We didn't even have our own office, but Chef Gino let us use a table in his restaurant. As long as we ordered something, that is." They both chuckled. "Those were simple times, but we always believed that our big break was just around the corner."

Sam's phone went off and he checked it. It was his dad. "Sorry Mr. … uh, Buddy, I gotta answer this." Sam stood up and answered his phone while going to the balcony (is that a helipad? And a dance floor?). "Hi Dad, what's up?"

"Dinner's soon, your mother was wondering if you found that box?" Sam's father said. He heard something _beep_ in the background.

"Uh, no not yet. I'll get it and come right home. Bye Dad," he hung up before his dad could ask questions. He went back to the room and saw Buddy standing up. "I've got to go Mr. Buddy."

Buddy nodded. "I do too, it's getting late."

"You don't live here?"

"Of course not, I'm rich. I just come here for … sentimental reasons," Buddy said. He made his way to the elevator. "Get the lights on your way out. And if you want to hear the rest of the story, it's all in the comics. Except for one of them, you'll know which one."

Buddy left and Sam was alone in the room. Once again, Sam was drawn to the crown. He decided to heed Buddy's threatening warning and left it alone.

He made it to the storage unit quickly and started sorting through the boxes. He found a small, beat up cardboard box with 'Family Stuff' written on the side in Sharpie. It was pretty light so he carried it with him back to the T.

Dinner was an awkward affair, with Papa Mike and his mom zoning out. He excused himself early and went up to his room. He opened the box and saw a small stack of … comic books?

Sam took one out and looked at it. It had a younger version of Buddy and Olivia-Ivy on the cover, drawn in the style that Buddy draws in. He looked at the title. _Special Agents in: The Dirty Dognapper._

* * *

 **So, yeah. Anyone who played the Wii version will know a lot of the references being made here. I didn't even know there _was_ a DS version until recently. This is what my mind filled in while I was playing the game, because remember, the game starts by telling someone who is never identified the story of his "pal", the player. In this case, Livvy. So, since Old Buddy is famous for the comics he wrote about his pal, why not tell the story though those comics.**

 **If anyone is reading this, I'll be gone for a month, but I will work on Chapter 1 as soon as I get back.**

 **~ Olivia-Ivy**


End file.
